Most students at Skidmore College have heard the whispers that a ghost haunts the campus. But few know her name—Cecily Rowe—and even fewer know why she remains here, wandering the corridors, unable to leave. 

It was raining, of course. The kind of rain that doesn’t fall but sinks into you, deep into the marrow, until you feel as if your bones are heavy with it. The funeral procession moved in slow, stilted steps, a stream of black umbrellas bobbing like oil slicks under the bleak sky. I kept my distance, partly because I didn’t know the man well and partly because something wasn’t right. 

You are a force like Victoria Falls,

Named for the Queen, yet more aptly,

Called Mosi-oa-Tunya, “The Smoke that Thunders.”

If you told me a year ago that I’d be getting my first real taste of Skidmore College through a summer academic institute, I’d have laughed. But here I am, fresh off the plane from North Macedonia, basking in the energy of this campus I’ve dreamed about for months. This article isn’t just a love letter to my future alma mater; it’s an exploration of what Skidmore represents.

Pretty Little Dead Thing—

Sky Creature Hit Ground,

you were always invincible to me,

above the Earth’s cruel touch,

but It has taken you.

He isn’t a mighty dragon that any myths depict, bravely fighting off adventurers to protect his treasure, nor a fearsome companion that I soar through the skies with. You won’t see him on the battlefield, roaring with enough strength to shake the earth; in fact, he’s the quietest member of my family, squeaking only in surprise in the 20 gallons of water he lives in.

I’m a wanderer, a nomad of sorts

When I walk, you follow, and when I hurt, you hurt

If there were a path we went down 

I wouldn’t look back or turn around

I’d go and know, you followed…

They walk together hand-in-hand. He savors what they have. His best friend. Her pale skin glows in the moonlight.

She’s so striking.

Shaking the thought out of his mind, he turns to her,

“Tell me something.”

“I love you,” she lilts.

I’ve been breathing for a while. I can feel the wood against my back, and taste the air. But my heart hasn’t started beating. It’s an odd feeling. I can tell that time has passed, and I can tell that my consciousness has returned, but my internal clock is still broken and my life hasn’t come back.

I reach into the depths of my backpack and become engulfed by a sense of relief when I feel the sharp metal object. I begin to pull it out, or at least try to. The key gets tangled in the pages and pages of Greek grammar notes shoved into my backpack. It’s been two months and I still don’t know how to conjugate the verb “ειμαι.” The key finally makes its way up into the fresh air of Pangrati. As the cool key hits my sweaty hand, I realize that I cut my index finger…

She doesn’t give the baby another look and leaves the room on swift feet, passing the maternity ward and not stopping till she exits the swiveling doors and collapses in the spiky grass outside the horrid walls that reek of death, even around life. There are light pink peonies, like the baby's hat, growing out of a small patch near a hospital garden sign. A monarch butterfly flaps its wings and floats in front of her and a gentle breeze wipes the tears from her face with a soothing whisper. It’s cruel how beautiful it is. As if nature itself refused to give her another look, to even regard her pain with a gray cloud or drop of rain. The flowers would keep growing; the flowers would keep living.